They Call Me Mimi
by tarnished glitter
Summary: About Mimi's childhood and how she ended up the way she did, a junkie w/ AIDS knocking on Roger's door with a candle. Please read! If you've read and hated all my other stories, check this one out because this is different than anything I've done before.


A/N:  I've always wondered what Mimi's life was like before Rent, and there seems to be so few stories written about it. I think Mimi is one of the most interesting characters in Rent and I've spent many nights just thinking about what her life must have been like as a child…how she turned to drugs, how she got AIDS… Anyway, I got tired of wondering and decided to make up my own version as to what her life was like. That's what you're reading now. This is kind of a new style of writing for me, I usually write in first person but I decided to give third a shot. Scroll down to the bottom of the page, leave a review, tell me what you think…you know the drill. :)

Disclaimer:  Characters aren't mine, as much as I wish that they were. But no, I could never come up with characters as good as these (believe me, I tried), they belong to Jonathan Larson.

No one seemed to notice the small, Latino girl as she walked at a quick pace down the grungy streets of Manhattan. No one noticed that while the rest of the population of New York was clad in tiny tank tops, shorts, mini-skirts, and t-shirts, that she covered her lithe body in long, pleather pants and a sweater. No one seemed to notice at all.

Her long, dark curls bounced around her shoulders, danced around her face, and her childlike appearance gave the impression that she was a happy child, innocent, and burden free.

There were some who noticed though, some who gave her a second glance. There were some pedestrians who turned their heads, glancing curiously at teen, now practically jogging down the cracked sidewalk. They assumed she was going to the park, maybe to meet a friend. No one could have guessed her real purpose as she sprinted, faster now as she approached her destination.

She was, after all, Mimi. Every parent's dream child, the ideal student, popular, outgoing… Maybe that's why no one knew, why no one would have ever been able to guess what she was really doing that sunny afternoon in August.

Panting, she finally closed in on St. Mark's Place, and took a moment to catch her breath before wandering further into the place her mother had always warned her never to go.

"That place is filthy! All the homeless people live on the sidewalk, the only people that go there are the junkies!" she had said once, upon noticing her eldest daughter staring at the place inquisitively.

'Well,' Mimi thought bitterly as she advanced towards a dark figure, perhaps the only one dressed as she was, in long pants and a coat, 'I guess she was right.'

They always laughed when they saw Mimi. Even the dealer, whom she thought would be glad to have her business, chortled along with the rest of them as she approached the crowd, standing up straight, trying to look older and taller than she really was.

Ignoring the snickers and the cruel whispers and taunts behind her back, she pushed a lock of chocolate curls out of her face and shoved a hand into her pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills, which she then shoved into The Man's grimy hands.

He grinned. "Here ya go, cutie," he sneered as he counted the cash and slipped a small bag of white powder into Mimi's open palm.

She had to resist the urge to say "thank you" as she walked away, pretending she didn't hear the comments from the other junkies and the homeless. She kept up a good façade at home and at school. She had to be polite and charming, if she wasn't she knew that they would suspect. But who would suspect a sweet, innocent, naïve girl like her to be shooting up every day for the past two months? Just the thought was absurd. No, the Mimi that they knew wouldn't even **think** about drugs. To her parents and friends drugs were evil. To her they were a savior.

Sure, her mother had noticed the many needle pricks that adorned both her arms, and the track marks now almost visible under her dark flesh. Mimi had chalked it up to illness, said it was a rash. And her mother bought it, never questioning the matter again. How her mother could be so naïve, she didn't know. Maybe she just didn't want to face the truth.

Mimi bounded down the street now, beginning to feel the start of the hated and feared withdrawal symptoms. By the time she finally reached a place where she could inject the antidote into her system – the bathroom of a fancy restaurant on 22nd street – her hands were already beginning to shake, and her frail body was breaking out in a cold sweat.

She dug through her backpack, slung over her shoulder, with fervor until she found what she was looking for. Her tools. Mimi quickly set to work melting the recently purchased powder in the spoon she always carried with her, and when she was sure she had a smooth liquid, she filled the syringe and plunged the needle tip into her arm, already laced with the beginning signs of track marks.

Mimi sighed deeply as she let the heroin work its magic. She could feel it traveling through her veins, spreading to every limb of her body, relaxing and calming the tremors that had previously taken over only moments ago.

Numb now to the pain that had haunted her for the past six hours of the day, she stood up and walked nonchalantly out of the restaurant, feeling as carefree as she always appeared to everyone else.

There was still a back part of Mimi's mind though, that was not yet completely taken over by the heroin, that was upset, angry, and perhaps a little scared that the small amount of heroin was not creating the same affects as it used to. Now she was just numb. Numb to the pain, the anguish, and to the world around her. Yet months ago the tiny amount of smack she had been taking would have had her bouncing off the walls by now, happy, wasted, and in that amazing drugged haze that was getting harder and harder to reach as the days went by.

No, now all it did was keep her normal, out of withdrawal. And she didn't have the money to afford any more smack than what she had right now. Sometimes even the measly amount of money she received from her after school job and various odd jobs wasn't enough to buy the poison that, by now, had become as necessary as air.

Sighing, Mimi glanced down at her arm and rolled up the sleeve, revealing the latest needle prick. She ran her hand over the smooth, silky texture of the skin of her upper arm, but when her hand drifted down further to her forearm the skin was not at all smooth, but rough and bumpy from all the needle wounds and scars from collapsed veins.

She hated it. She had always hated pain and needles. When she was younger she was terrified of the doctor, because to her, doctors meant shots and needles. She found it ironic that now, all these years later, the thing that scared her most as a child brought her the most comfort today.

When Mimi finally tore her gaze from her scarred arm and glanced back up she could see that her run down apartment building was in sight and she quickly rolled the sleeve of her wool sweater down again. The last thing she needed was for her mother to notice her latest "rash" and get suspicious again.

Once inside, she raced up two flights of stairs and flung the dilapidated apartment door open, coming face to face with Elena. Her younger sister's face looked somber and her wide, imploring eyes looked into Mimi's, her expression saying more than words ever could. Something happened.

"¿Por qué usted tiene agujas?"

Mimi's eyes widened at the innocent question asked by her seven-year-old sister, and as she heard her mother's rapid footsteps approaching from the other room, Mimi quickly fled from the apartment before any more questions could be asked.

A/N:  Yes, I am going somewhere with this story. In the next chapter you can look forward to finding out what exactly it was that Elena said to get Mimi so upset. Review please! Your reviews are what keep this story going. ;)


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